


miles to go (before i sleep)

by I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own



Series: Evil Author Day 2021 [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: No Beta we die like everyone on Numenor, Soul Markings, immortal Bard, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:07:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29460264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own/pseuds/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own
Summary: Half-elves are given the Choice. What happens to their children? Some end up enduring the Anti-Choice.
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil
Series: Evil Author Day 2021 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2163834
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	1. high in the halls of the kings who are gone

All humans are born with two sets of numbers somewhere on their skin. The first tells how many lives their soul has lived, including the current one, and the second set of numbers tells how many years they’ve been alive, the second set goes up by one for every birthday that they see. Most humans choose to hide their numbers, in some human cultures it’s considered the height of impropriety to show your numbers openly. The biggest taboo is speaking of your numbers with those who aren’t human.

This secretive nature is the only reason Bard has gotten away with things as long as he has. Bard stopped actively looking at his numbers when the years hit triple digits, he’s well into the quadruple digits now. Nowadays, he glances at them only occasionally as he changes the bandage around his upper arm, which hides them from sight.

Triple digits alone wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary for his family, his grandfather lived to be five hundred, his mother lived to be four hundred and thirty-eight. No, what was odd was that he hit his triple digits without looking at all his age. The moment he had, his mother began to ask questions, of him, of their grandfather, of his uncles, no one had any answers.

“Maybe you have been given the Choice.” His grandfather had posited once when Bard had sat before him after yet another futile session of reading all the books they could get their hands on.

“What does Great-uncle say, grandfather?” he’d queried, hands cupping his mug of hot tea like it was the only warmth in the world. He’d never wanted to be different.

“I have not asked, little one. He would know as much as I know and have books containing even less information than what we’ve already gone through.” His grandfather had told him with a heavy sigh. “We will simply have to see how things fall, won’t we?” And that had been that.

It wasn’t the Choice. Bard learned that much when his first wife died, and he’d crawled into her grave with her and, eventually, been pulled back out of it again, no matter how much he’d screamed to go with her. He’d been told it was a good thing their marriage had been childless, this way, perhaps, he might not learn the pain of outliving his children (no, just the pain of outliving his wife).

He should have known it wasn’t the Choice, elves weren’t born with the numbers. Half-elves were born with the pointed ears of their elven kin and the lack of numbers of their human kin. Bard was the opposite, born with rounded ears and the numbers stark black against his skin. For a long time, he was the only one of his kind, whatever that kind may be.

Then he remarried, had children, watched their numbers climb and climb and climb as his did and there was no one to ask questions of any longer, for his grandfather was gone, as was his mother, but he wasn’t alone anymore. His children married and had children, some of those children were like him, their numbers never seeming to run out, they hit a certain age and it was like they’d slammed into a wall, never visibly aging a single day older. It wasn’t the Choice.

The years kept rolling, his descendants spreading across Númenor, but no longer spreading whatever curse had befallen him and his own children. Too diluted in the blood, he’d learned, the same way that the further and further from elven blood his cousins got, the fewer years they got to live. Still, he hadn’t been alone in the world, most of his children were still there, same with his grandchildren.

Then his cousins went looking for immortality and other things that they should have known better than to covet. Bard survived by virtue of already being in Middle-earth at the time. He was the only one. His entire bloodline, bar himself, wiped from the map. Eru hadn’t cared who He’d drowned, just so long as the pesky, greedy, no good humans didn’t forget their place. Eru hadn’t cared about the Not-Choice He’d thrust upon Bard and those of his bloodline. Bard decided he shouldn’t give a damn about Eru, His Valar, or His damn rules either.

As far as Bard was concerned, there were no gods worthy of his worship. Even the progenitor of his bloodline, Queen Melian of Doriath, had fled, uncaring of the danger her absence opened her kingdom to.

No, Bard had decided, he was a godless man.

* * *

The years kept coming, rolling on without notice, Bard honestly couldn’t tell you who he was supposed to be calling King or Steward or Chief at any given moment. Besides, his King, his grandfather, was long dead and buried, lost beneath the waves of the sea, now. He could not visit his grave or the graves of his mother, his spouses, his children, even if he wanted to, for they all belonged to the sea now, that treacherous domain that had also claimed his great-grandmother.

It was, during a portion of years that he spent cursing at the sea, that he met an unexpected stranger. A dark-haired elf walking the shore singing laments. Unlike Bard, the elf had been singing of his own regrets, where Bard was cursing the powers that be.

“Caution in your words and deeds, young Edain.” That musical voice had warned him, pausing in his songs, piercing grey eyes locking to Bard’s own brown ones. “Eru is not forgiving for those who swear upon His name.” Bard had scoffed at the warning, a fire sparkling in his eyes.

“I was born cursed by the One, you do not have to warn me, elf.” Bard had told them, turning to glare across the sea where he _knows_ lies Aman. “My kin were given the Choice; I was given no such thing at all.”

“You are half-elven?”

“Half-human is probably more accurate, even though the proportions are off.” Bard had said, his eye twitching with barely concealed rage as he’d clenched his jaw. “My grandfather made the Choice to be counted among the Edain, his brother is still around. I think he’s Lord of Rivendell now, or something. I haven’t really been paying much attention since Eru decided to wipe my entire fucking bloodline off the face of the earth for my cousin’s transgressions.” He’d snarled, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “If I ever get the chance to bring war to His Blessed Realm, I’ll succeed where my cousin failed. I sw-”

“Don’t!“ the elf had exclaimed, reaching out to grip his arms tightly, shaking him. “ _Don’t._ No matter what you feel in this moment, no matter how righteous you believe yourself to be, no matter how much courage you have. If you swear this Oath, you will regret it long before you _ever_ have a chance of fulfilling it.” the elf had warned him and reluctantly, he’d accepted the elf’s warning and kept his tongue. “Will you tell me your name?” the elf had asked, when he obviously worked out that Bard wasn’t going to swear the Oath.

“I was born Ilúvatarndil, son of Tindómiel, daughter of Elros Tar-Minyatur, First King of Númenor. Nowadays, I just go by whatever name sticks long enough for me to recognize it as my own.” Bard had answered, shrugging his shoulders. The elf’s grip on his wrists had tightened briefly before the elf had pulled away.

“Well met, Son of the House of Elros. I was born Kanafinwë and Makalaurë, known by-“

“Maglor!” Bard had exclaimed, his eyes going wide as he’d stared at the elf before him. “Great-grandfather!” he’d crowed, a smile forming on his face. “Grandfather Elros used to tell me all sorts of stories.” He’d barely noticed the shock that had written itself all over Maglor’s face. He’d just babbled right on, so excited to not be as alone in the world as he’d first thought.

After that, he’d spent a great deal of time tracking his great-grandfather down, two cursed, aimless exiles enjoying each other’s company.

* * *

He’d taken the time to settle down, fallen in love, married, fathered two beautiful children. This time, he didn’t know if it was Eru or Morgoth who decided to remind him just how cruel they can be. The dragon claims everything. His home, his people, his wife, his children.

He’d shed the name Girion and sent himself back into exile for a time. When he returned, it was just long enough that people would assume he was Girion’s son, rather than Girion himself. He’d set Lake Town as his official residence but spent the next centuries wandering, returning every now and again to play at being his own son’s son’s son, and so on until he’d returned as Bard.

Once again, he fell in love, married, fathered children. Things had been going well until sickness had taken his wife, left him his children, and no, he didn’t thank Eru for either of these things. They’d recovered, as much as anyone can when they’re missing their wife or their mother. But they hadn’t, necessarily, been floundering.

Then that fucking dragon came back.

* * *

Going back to Dale almost breaks him. He can’t ever go back to Númenor, can’t ever walk the city of his birth, can’t ever retrace steps long forgotten to memory, can’t ever visit the graves of loved ones long lost to time. Dale, though, still stands here, a testament to everything he lost to that fucking dragon that has stolen his home from him again. Why must he always make five steps forward and ten back?

* * *

Meeting Thranduil, is genuinely the only good thing to come about from the dragon attack.


	2. jenny would dance with her ghosts

Bard’s fallen in and out of love his entire life. Sometimes, he’s loved the wrong people just as he’s hated the wrong people, too. He’s heard all he ever wants to hear about soulmates, has learned through hardship and pain and, yes, good times, too, that soulmates are just another folk tale told to children. Still, the moment he meets, or rather re-meets, Thranduil, he thinks he understands the truth all of those folk tales were based on.

Last time he met Thranduil, he was Girion and he was a man so in love with his wife he barely had eyes for anyone else, that had included Thranduil. Now, he is untethered, to a home or a spouse, and honestly not looking for companionship, so of course, the stubborn, pretty bastard struts back into his life like he has any right to be there.

That’s what really gets him. He’s struck by how easily the elf fits back into his life. They’d been little more than acquaintances before and, of course, they’re less than that now, since Thranduil doesn’t know he was Girion, too. But for all that, Thranduil steps into his life like he has always been there. Bard doesn’t understand it, but he’s fascinated, all the same.

He doesn’t know exactly when he falls in love, because despite the instant attraction and the ease of their interactions, that’s all it is. Bard’s never been foolish with his love, especially after his first wife died. Love is something precious and _fragile_ and he knows better than to go running off giving his heart away to the first person who smiles at him. Although, he’s swiftly learning that he would do anything Thranduil asks, for very little in return. So, apparently, he’s not foolish when it comes to giving his love, but once it’s been given, all bets are off.

Still, he doesn’t wake up one day and decide ‘I’m in love with Thranduil’, it’s a slow realization that happens in the days after the Battle of Five Armies, in those times when Bard’s woken in pain but without the sharp delirium that has plagued most of his conscious moments since the battle, and the face that greets him, looking so confused and exhausted and yet still, despite it all, beautiful, is Thranduil’s, each and every time.

The jig-saw puzzles slowly fitting together until one of the days after the battle, when Bard is finally no longer lost in thrall of the poison. He listens to Thranduil telling him the goings-on in the camp, the latest updates with regards to the dwarves, or to casualties, or to other things that aren’t in any way romantic. It’s in the middle of this conversation, where Thranduil’s put his wine goblet down to give him free use of his hands as he gestures, to rant about the latest stupidity with the dwarves, that Bard finds the words slipping from his lips, in a tongue he hasn’t deigned to speak since long before it was ever banned, _again_.

“Tye-meláne.” The words are an accident, a realisation spoken aloud before he thinks either of them are ready, but he doesn’t regret it. Not even when Thranduil rears back in surprise, his eyes going wide as his lips part in disbelief, his words halted as suddenly as Bard’s own words had formed. He watches the emotions that flitter over Thranduil’s face, noting each one in the time it takes for the great king to recover himself. “Too soon?” Bard queries, incapable of backing down from this, clearly even if that means he loses Thranduil in the process.

“Do you know what that means?” Thranduil asks him, his head cocked to the side and a frown pulling at his lips, where just moments ago there had been a smug smile.

“I’m not in the habit of saying things I don’t understand… or mean.” Bard answers, watches the small blush that forms on Thranduil’s face, he smiles and looks up at the ceiling of the tent, to give the elf time to recover. “You don’t have to reciprocate; it was just something I realized as you were talking.” Bard says, listens as Thranduil snorts.

“I was talking about the _dwarves_ and that’s what made you realize you loved me?” Thranduil demands, incredulous, Bard grins, turning back to catch the adorable way Thranduil has scrunched up his face. Bard has never understood how anyone could call this elf cold, unfeeling, statuesque. Even when he’d been Girion, Thranduil had been like an open book to him, he’d just never bothered to take the time to read him, beyond the necessary.

“You know what they say about love; it’s in the little things.” Bard comments, amused when Thranduil’s brow furrows. “As I said, you don’t have to reciprocate, but my cards are laid on the table.” He says, wanting to reach out and smooth away the lines on his forehead. “You can go back to regaling me with the tales of the dwarves now, if you wish?”

“I-I-right.” Thranduil stutters, before clearing his throat, and launching back into his tale, though Bard notes the thoughtful frowns Thranduil shoots him every now and again when he thinks Bard isn’t paying attention. Bard simply smiles and lays back in his bed and listens.

It’s late into the evening when Bard long ago closed his eyes and fell into a light doze that Thranduil finally runs out of things to say. Bard’s too exhausted to pick up the slack, or to even wish him goodnight, so he’s fairly certain Thranduil believes him to be asleep when the elf leans forward to press a gentle kiss to his forehead and murmur that he thinks he loves Bard, too.

Bard can’t be blamed for the smug smile that forms on his lips when Thranduil departs the tent. He’s never been foolish with his love, no, but he’s never been cowardly in his love, either.

* * *

“What do the numbers mean?” Thranduil asks the morning after their ‘confessions’, Bard startles at the question, his eyes going wide in shock and he sits up in a hurry, a pained cry on his lips as the movement jars his still-healing wounds. He hears Thranduil calling his name, but he ignores him in favour of looking at his arm where it’s bound against his chest in a sling, sure enough, there on the upper arm, just above the bend of his arm, is his numbers on clear display.

Bard can’t help but stare at the numbers, his mind racing as he realizes that he can’t have had a human healer, for they would have re-covered the numbers before taking their leave. None of his spouses, none of his lovers, have ever seen his numbers, at least, not more than a fleeting glimpse. The traditions surrounding the importance of keeping the numbers hidden hasn’t changed all that much since he was a child, so he doesn’t feel bad about how naked the sight of his numbers makes him feel.

“Bard?” Thranduil’s voice is gentle as it pulls at him, slowly Bard pulls his gaze away and looks up at him, sees the unbridled concern on the elf’s face. “Are they something bad?” Thranduil queries, looking so uncertain, it makes Bard want to apologize for over-reacting because they’re just… they’re just numbers, right? But they’ve never been just numbers.

When he was little, they were confirmation that he was the first life his soul had ever lived, it was considered to be a great honour back then and he’d been so, so _grateful_. Then, when he had stopped aging and his second set of numbers had just kept on climbing, they became the visible representation of his Curse. They stopped being anything but that when he outlived all of his elders on Númenor.

“Bard?” Thranduil’s voice pulls at him again and he realizes his gaze had drifted back to his numbers. “I’m sorry. Elrond and I didn’t know it was something you wanted to keep covered.” Thranduil tells him, stepping to the bedside and carefully wrapping a pristine white bandage around the numbers, hiding them from view, the moment he can’t see them anymore, Bard lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I’m sorry-“

“It’s not your fault.” Bard promises, his brain suddenly kicking itself back into gear. “It’s just… they’re taboo. You’re not supposed to wear them openly and you’re not… well, you’re not supposed to talk about them with anyone who isn’t human.”

“Oh, I see.” Thranduil murmurs, sitting back down in the chair beside the bed, frowning. “We didn’t mean to cause any offense, Bard.”

“No, I-I know, I’ve just-I’ve kept them hidden my whole life, no one outside my mother, my father, my grandfather, and my uncles have ever seen them.” Bard admits, then he pauses considering that and rolls his eyes. “Well, healers have seen them sometimes, when I’ve been injured, but they don’t count.”

“In that case, the only ones who have seen them are still only your family.” Thranduil murmurs, Bard blinks at him in confusion. “Elrond and I are healers and, aside from your children, we’ve kept everyone else from seeing you.”

“Oh.” Bard says, he doesn’t know why that eases something in him, but it does, and he finally pays attention to the name Thranduil has said twice now. “Elrond?”

“Lord Elrond of Rivendell.” Thranduil answers, smiling softly as he speaks. “He’s a healer, my cousin, and my brother in all but blood.” Bard can’t help but laugh at that, resisting the urge to bury his head in his hands. Their bloodline apparently has not learnt anything about not looping back in on itself.

“I didn’t know you were cousins.” Bard murmurs, but then he did know that didn’t he? His grandfather ensured they all knew their family tree, no matter how many headaches it generated and no matter how many times his cousins and he threatened to coup. Bard had simply never bothered to pay too much attention to the elves he assumed he’d never meet. Then, when Númenor had sunk beneath the waves, taking everyone that he loved with it, he’d consigned all of those early memories to the watery grave with all those he could no longer talk to.

“You know Elrond?”

“I know _of_ Elrond. We have a sad, beach cryptid in common, among others.” Bard explains, watches the confusion that blooms on Thranduil’s face and can’t help but laugh as Thranduil mouths the words ‘sad, beach cryptid’ to himself. “He prefers to go by the name of Maglor,” he pauses, frowning at the way Thranduil flinches, but Bard puts that from his mind as he makes a decision. “or grandfather.”

“Grandfather?” Thranduil demands, his eyes wide, Bard hums and nods his head. “You’re half-elven?” Bard shakes his head, clutching at his heart when it jolts in pain at the reminder of the Curse thrust upon him where his more fortunate relatives were given a Choice.

“That’s what the numbers are, you know?” Bard asks, slowly forcing his fingers to flatten out before he rubs gently at his chest, an attempt to soothe an ache he knows will not be soothed. “Half-elves are given the Choice; half-humans are given the Curse. More human than elven except in one specific arena. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but I’m not really human anyway.” He says, shrugging his good shoulder and giving Thranduil the universal expression of ‘what-can-you-do?’

“You don’t have to tell me if it’ll put you in some form of trouble.” Thranduil argues, even though Bard can see the curiosity shining in his eyes.

“I’m already Cursed, Thranduil. There’s not much more trouble I can get in, and I was born Cursed.” Bard answers, shaking his head. “Humans are born with two sets of numbers, the first tells the story of how many lives their soul has lived. The second set tells how many years they’ve lived in this specific incarnation.”

“But your number is-“

“Quadruple digits, I know. Again, I’m Cursed. Not human. Not elven. Not half-elven. Half-human, I’m the first and last of my kind, unless my children have inherited, as their elder siblings did.” Bard says, wrinkling his nose, uncertain whether he wants his children to be like him or not. He considers the elf before him and sighs. “I was born Ilúvatarndil, son of Tindómiel, daughter of Elros Tar-Minyatur of Númenor.” Bard watches the colour drain out of Thranduil’s face, his eyes going wide as his lips form a surprised ‘o’. Bard thinks it’s an achievement to shock the elf-king this many times in only a handful of days.

“That’s- I need a moment.” Thranduil finally explains, standing on shaky feet and stumbling from the tent. Bard frowns after him but doesn’t attempt to climb from the bed, already knowing without aid, that will just land him on the floor in a heap of agony.

He isn’t alone for too long before the tent flaps shift and an elf who looks like his grandfather steps through. Bard’s certain he’s seen glimpses of him these past few days, but he hadn’t been able to tell if they were real or he was hallucinating from the poison. The elf before him now, is definitely real and also not his grandfather.

“So, we finally meet.” Elrond says, coming to stand at Bard’s bedside with his arms crossed loosely over his chest, his eyes are shining with the same curiosity and intelligence that his grandfather’s had held until the day he’d died. “Atto has told me much of you.”

“He’s told me of you, also,” Bard replies, grinning. “and, if I’m not mistaken, we’ve met once before.” He points out, the memory little more than a vague recollection of events, but no true memory and one he knows to be true.

“You remember that?” Elrond queries, surprised. “You were only five years old.”

“Six.” Bard corrects, absently. “It was my sixth birthday and the day Grandfather presented me to our people as the third in line to the throne.” He hums at that and rolls his eyes. “Not like any of us expected me to ever be king, or my mother to ever be queen, but that was the tradition Grandfather instituted, so…” he gives a one-armed shrug. “I was never present whenever you visited after that and… you didn’t attend Grandfather’s funeral.” The words aren’t said accusingly, just blunt fact with no judgement, but Elrond recoils like he’s been struck.

“I… was quite inconsolable when I learned that he had passed.” Elrond admits, Bard can understand that, he’d been inconsolable, too.

“It was a good funeral.” Bard says, he doesn’t really remember much of it, but he knows it was good, knows that it did his grandfather justice. Bard sighs and shakes his head, he doesn’t want to talk about this, about his grandfather and all the others lost beneath the waves. “Do you know where Thranduil went?”

“He needed some time to think about what you said.” Elrond admits, glancing behind him to the tent flap with a frown. “He said there was a ‘family secret’ he might as well let us in on, but I don’t know exactly what that was all about.”

“Right, another family secret.” Bard murmurs, rolling his eyes. “I suppose I’ll survive it.”

* * *

It’s not until after dinner that Bard, and Elrond, learn what the family secret is, when Thranduil enters the tent with a set of twins who look very similar to Galion, Thranduil’s right hand-elf. Bard eyes the twins in curiosity, notes that Elrond is doing the same.

“The twins have decided that it is no longer fair to keep the secret that we have been holding since the First Age.” Thranduil admits as he steps up to Bard’s bedside, his gaze flicking back and forward between Bard and Elrond with concern. “Boys?” Bard lets his eyes shift back to the twins, cocking his head to the side as he waits for them to speak, only, they don’t.

Beside him, Elrond gasps in shock, the sound mirrored by his own inhale as the twins begin to change before his eyes. Their golden hair turns pitch black, their icy blue gaze becomes piercing grey, the shape of their faces shifts, becoming more akin to Thranduil and Elrond than to Galion. Bard isn’t ashamed to say his jaw drops.

“You’re wearing glamour, why?” Bard asks, his brow furrowed as he remembers the tales his grandfather had told him of glamours, remembers the way the skin on Thranduil’s face had fallen away to reveal the scar beneath.

“A very long time ago, we shed our birth names and appearances and took up new names and new appearances, given to us by our adoptive uncles, who became our adoptive fathers.” One of the twins explains, smiling softly at Thranduil, Bard doesn’t have to think hard to figure out who one of those adoptive fathers is.

“The ruse was designed to protect us, believing as our fathers did that those who slew our birth parents, and many of our kin, would return for vengeance upon us, if they learned of our survival.” The other twin explains, turning to share a look with their brother.

“They had already abandoned us in the vastness of a forest to die, once, our fathers could not take the risk that next time, they would simply kill us and be done with it.” The first twin explains, turning back to them, eyeing Elrond with something akin to fondness and curiosity.

“When those same people came for our sister and her sons and slew even more of our people, we knew that our fathers had made the right choice for us.” The second twin explains, shaking his head.

“Years later, we learned that our nephews had not been slain, as we had feared. Still, we believed it would be too dangerous to reveal the truth, also, our adoptive grandfather was leading our people well, we didn’t wish to usurp his place as would have been, and remains our blood right.” The first twin admits, as Bard puts the last pieces of the puzzle together and blinks.

“The missing Elu twins.” He blurts in surprise, notes the way four sets of eyes look at him in surprise. “Oh, uh, the family tree is a nightmare.” He admits, sees the amused looks the elves all share as they nod. “My cousins and, later, my children came up with a way of grouping each of the twin or triplet groups to make things easier to memorize. Eluréd and Elurín became the Elu twins, Elrond and Elros became the Elro twins. The Valar twins, they were the daughters of my uncle Manwendil. There were the Fates, they were my daughters.” He admits, the words almost sticking in his throat. His eldest children, his eldest daughters, all lost to the sea. _No, don’t think about them._ He commands himself and sucks in a breath, shaking his head to clear his thoughts.

“Anyway, the Elu twins became sort of a folk tale in Númenor, then as our friendship with the elves waned, they became a cautionary tale.” He says, smiling apologetically at the frown that the twins _and_ Thranduil give him. “Don’t trust the elves, children, they will lead you into the forest and abandon you to die.” He continues, putting on a mock dramatic voice before rolling his eyes. “The elves couldn’t exactly refute the claim, since that’s what happened, as far as anyone knew.” He grins at the elves, shaking his head in wonder. “But you survived. My mother, she often said she didn’t believe the forest would have allowed you to die and, considering who we all believed was her soul’s first life, I never doubted her word.”

“Her soul’s first life?” Elrond queries, Bard frowns at him.

“You don’t know?” He asks in confusion, turns to look at the twins and Thranduil and sees them looking just as confused as Elrond. “Apparently not. _Right_ , uhm, well I already told Thranduil about the numbers.” Bard decides to hell with that specific part of tradition, Elrond and the twins are close enough to human, anyway, and Thranduil is still family, so, technically, still allowed. “Human’s don’t go to Mandos’ Halls when they die, or not really. There is a Hall of Waiting, but it’s a way point, really. The souls go there and then are reborn. This rebirth is marked on their new body as a number. I’m the first life my soul has lived, but my mother was the second for hers.”

“Who was she assumed to have been?” Thranduil asks, his expression pinched, Bard hesitates.

“She was named Tindómiel and, later, married a man named Verya the Valiant.” Bard answers, as if that explains everything, given the surprised looks on the elves faces, he thinks it does. “My father was, also, the second life his soul had lived.”

“Lúthien and Beren.” Thranduil breathes, Bard nods his head, smiling sadly.

“That’s what Grandfather believed. He told me once, that before he became mortal he used to dream of my mother, the only one of his children he had visions of. The day she was born, he said he knew what he would call her, because the name had been whispering in his mind all of his life and it wasn’t until he saw the number on her collarbone that day, that he understood why.” Bard notes the way Elrond has suddenly gone very, very pale and abruptly remembers Grandfather Maglor telling him that Elrond had a daughter, Arwen _Undómiel._

 _Well,_ Bard thinks, feeling oddly detached and like he’s going to burst into hysterical laughter at any moment _, that’s unfortunate. Our family always did like repeating itself._

“I-I have to check on something, but I would like to discuss this all later.” Elrond tells them all, before swiftly fleeing the tent. Thranduil looks like he wants to chase after the elf, but with a sigh he turns back to Bard with a thoughtful little frown.

“Your eldest children, what happened to them?” Thranduil asks, as the twins quietly wave to him before they duck out of the tent, leaving him alone with Thranduil.

“You have met my living children.” Bard admits, even as the words taste like ashes in his mouth, _no_ , he thinks, _not just ashes. Salt!_ The thought is vicious and cloying and he feels the burn in his eyes as he remembers the pain of the sea claiming all that he had loved. _Unlike Great-grandmother, they had not been deemed worthy of being turned into birds to save them. So much for Ulmo never abandoning the Children of Eru._ “The Downfall washed away more than just Pharazôn’s foolish fucking armada, as everyone knows. No-one cares, though, because Elendil, his sons, and their handful of people, were the only ones who got away, the ones who got to write the history. No one cared that there were still innocents left, trapped, on Númenor when it sunk beneath the waves. Not enough ships to carry them all.” 

“I’m sorry, Bard, I can’t imagine what that must have been like.” Thranduil admits, sounding genuinely sorrowful and looking oddly guilty. Bard laughs at Thranduil’s words, the sound is hollow, and he furiously rubs at the tears that blur his eyes.

“In some ways, I think it was easier than when the dragon came the first time.” Bard admits, as Thranduil goes pale again, Bard already knows Thranduil’s hatred of dragons, Bard matches him in that hatred. “If that dragon had taken my children from me, _again_ , I’d have murdered Thorin on the spot for waking it. He’s as selfish and greedy as his grandfather was.” Bard declares, clenching his jaw. “Careless and without thought for the lives of any but his and those he loves.”

“He has barely survived his wounds and his nephews are scarred and maimed for life. Perhaps, he will have learned the lesson.” Thranduil murmurs, though there is doubt in his voice. “I’m sorry I abandoned Dale that day the dragon first came and I’m sorry I almost abandoned you again during the Battle.”

“We never had any claim over you but friendship.” Bard answers, waving away Thranduil's apologies because he doesn’t owe Bard anything. Thranduil’s aid had been invaluable when Dale had been destroyed and they’d fled to the lake; without that aid, they’d all have perished. Again, when Lake Town had been destroyed and they’d fled back to Dale, Thranduil’s aid had kept them alive. His army had defended them during the battle and yes, perhaps he had called the retreat, but Bard cannot blame him. He knows well how bitter it is to swallow the loss of your people for a battle that wasn’t theirs to begin with. “You owe us nothing, Thranduil. I am simply grateful that you are as generous as you are, for we would all be dead without you.”

“Perhaps.” Thranduil agrees though he doesn’t sound convinced. “I don’t think I’ve been called generous before, certainly not by anyone outside of my own people.”

“Well, it’s the least of what and who you are.” Bard says grinning as he remembers their discussion the day before. “Tye-meláne.” He murmurs, watches the way Thranduil’s face softens, his eyes shining.

“And I love you.” Thranduil says, without the hesitation he’d had just the day before. Bard wonders how much of his hesitation had been due to the belief that Bard was mortal. He’s been there before, hesitant, even reluctant, to let himself love knowing the inevitable pain to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bard is Elros' eldest grandson, so until Vardamir had his own children, Bard was the third in line, after Tindómiel...


End file.
